Author's Notes: Hello my dear readers. I wanted to take a moment to thank everyone for their continued support in sticking with me through this beast! Sadly, my dear laptop, my faithful friend and companion, is no more, and it will be a little bit until I can afford a new one. So, the last two chapters may come a little slowly, but they are coming. I thank you all for your patience in bearing with me.
In the meantime, I do hope you enjoy this latest installment . . .
Part XII: those whose breath burns hot
In the dark of Niflheimr's heart, the shield-maiden was not the only one to dream.
In Thor's dreams, he once again walked through the land that belonged to the Mórrigan. And yet, it was not a path familiar to him which he followed. This was not the land he had quested through just days before. Instead the world around him was thick and primordial. He followed a way not set by the feet of men, but rather a thin trail in the underbrush; a deer trail, delicate and winding. Before him on the path, a hunting party marched. Where Thor's steps were that of a ghost - the dream allowing him in only as a silent observer to his surroundings - the rows of Aesir soldiers before him thundered with their steps. Their bronze armor gleamed in the hushed light, and their yellow cloaks danced as flames against the deep forest shadows.
Thor made his way through the ranks, slipping without being seen, slipping with a step that bore no sound. When he made his way to the first row, he stopped and saw the Mórrigan at the battalion's head. The daughters of war were quite as Thor remembered them, all pale and wan with flame colored hair. Anann tan herder's garb made her a focal point in the dense brush. She wore no armor, but the simple garb made her seem even more dangerous for it. Macha too wore earthen tones, but hers were the warm brown leathers of a cavalry soldier. Her armor was matte, it did not gleam as that of the Aesir behind her. Still, it was clean and polished, showing where a careful hand had been applied in keeping it so. Badb was as he remembered, her skin cadaverous, her hair such a dark shade of red it seemed to be black. Her strong and thick frame was covered by plates of charcoal grey steel, darkening her until she flickered as a shadow. The light that did shine upon her was seemingly swallowed by her eyes, empty and hollow, shaped to be wells rather than mirrors.
Thor watched the Mórrigan as they marched, but it was the two men who walked with them who captured his attention, and held it.
The man ahead on the trail, and to Anann's right was a warrior whom Thor had only seen depicted in the Hall of the Fallen. His golden image still nodded gravely to the youngest ranks of warriors as they marched by on the way to the training rings. But it was just a portrait who smiled at he and every other who passed. It was just a likeness Thor knew, not a real man of flesh and bone – Lord Týr, the man Midgard knew simply as War. Thor recognized his visage not only from the stories told of his great deeds, but from the reflection of Sif's strong brow and sharp gaze. Týr passed his battle axe from hand to hand with a liquid grace that Thor knew acutely from Sif, as well. And then, there was the way his armor fit over him like a second skin, the way the battle flashed in his eyes as if it were drawn forth from his very bones . . .
Thor observed the man, and felt a part of himself ache. From what Sif had said, Lady Gná had done her utmost to preserve the memory of her father to her, but stories and fire side tales could only do so much. At the thought, Thor tried to imagine his path had it been only Frigg herself leading his way. How his life would have been without his lord father there to guide his step . . . It was something he could not comprehend, even in the most abstract of ways.
Týr smiled, and looked to his left. And there was Thor's own father, centuries younger than he knew Odin now to be. Odin's hair was still a dark shade of earthen gold – like the fields before they surrendered to winter, rather than the shade of silver grey Thor knew it now to be. The most striking difference, though, was seeing Odin stare ahead with both of his eyes. Odin's gaze was icy and blue, like Thor's own, and he knew a moment where he could not look away, not used to seeing his father without his patch and his single eyed gaze. What he saw must have been at the beginning of the Great War, Thor finally decided, for Anann and her sisters had not taken arms alongside Odin in the time before Laufey had leveled that first blow against Midgard.
Around them, the moon they walked through was not the calm and idyllic place Thor had come to know during his Quest of Proof - one with soft secrets and dripping with seiðr. No, in the sky above the forest, a flame grew. Ash rained down, piercing the tree canopies from above until the hot pieces stuck to their armor and burnt holes into the foliage around them. Birds screamed from their perches in response, while in the underbrush creatures ran to and fro in answer to the chaos around them; the scent of fire and destruction in the air.
And in the sky, the flames continued to burn, spinning as a disk did in a sick pantomime of the sun and her dance.
Thor's brow furrowed as he realized what he was seeing. He had heard about the twelfth moon of Álfheimr being devoured by the dragon in the early days of the Great War, before Níðhöggr was imprisoned by Odin, but he had never thought to see it with his own eyes.
In the sky, the twelfth moon burned, and on the moon that would someday become a haven presided over by the Mórrigan, the dragon roared. In the distance, Thor could hear him thunder - a wounded and angry sound, willing any and all around him away.
And as the forests around them listened to the dragon and fled, those in Odin's convoy stepped closer. In their shadows, Thor walked. And he listened.
"This quest is a diversion that your lands cannot stand to take," Anann was the one who was speaking, addressing Odin's back with a familiarity that had Thor raising a brow. Few were the souls who addressed Odin so in such a tone, and lived to speak of the abuse again. Still, she spoke with her brow narrowed, her eyes fierce. In her gaze, that same wisdom which Thor had encountered himself weighed, and her humble clothes and shepherd's hook only seemed to add to the strength of her words.
"I myself will never turn down a good hunt," Macha disagreed with her sister, her fierce look turning to tease. Every corner of her was sharp and silver born, as Thor remembered. Where Anann was liquid and powerful – an army spilling over a field, Macha was pointed and bare – every bit the charge of hooves and feet upon the ground. "And the dragon will definitely prove to be that."
From next to them, Týr smiled. He paused in his stride in order to clap the much smaller woman on the back. "Aye, that is true for me as well. Fighting giants is well and mighty, but every once and a while, a good fight against a wyrm is needed to remind us who the true warriors in these realms are."
Anann's gaze tightened – a look Thor was more than familiar with from his brother's face. It was a look that withered and questioned the brains over the brawn of the stare's recipient.
And Týr rolled his shoulders unrepentantly to the look.
Anann turned her gaze to Odin, who too had slowed to hear her words. She ignored his second. "The Nornir see many things, but it would be remiss indeed to take every word they say as absolute. Your realms cannot spare this battle - all to clip the roots of a vision that may never come to be."
And Odin's gaze was withering in return. "You were there when the Nornir pulled from their web the Twilight's tale. I find it hard to understand why you would protest taking even the smallest of precautions against that fate."
Anann's jaw hooked. "Your own wife saw a different fate of the time to be, did she not? Prophesy is a fickle art, my friend, and those who seek to understand it often find themselves struck the hardest by her blows."
"Many things are seen from many eyes for the future of these realms, and against each and every threat I will take my stand," Odin's voice was unwavering. His gaze was set.
"Which is why I do not understand why we are hunting down this wyrm while Laufey stands poised to strike against Midgard. He gains power and support, and here we are seeking scales -"
" - Laufey's days are numbered," Odin's voice fell as a blow. "That too, prophesy has foreseen."
Anann inclined her head. "Of course, Allfather." For she had been there when Frigg had woven that future, as well. "I remember well the end that is to come of this battle – Jötunnheimr burning, and peace rising to the nine realms from those ashes. But how many enemies will be made here when instead peace can be struck through different means? You mean to bind the dragon now, but while Níðhöggr is guilty of much, he is not yet the worldslayer that prophesy would paint him to be. He hurts, and he strikes – so yes, deal to him a punishment worthy of the crime. If you bind him with Niflheimr's magic, in the centuries to come, you will make the foe that prophesy speaks of. His hatred will grow. His madness will spiral with his imprisonment."
"Níðhöggr's prison is constructed for his own deeds," Odin said sharply. "Surely you must agree with that."
Anann took in a deep breath. "Then slay him now, and grant he and all of the realms a peace for the time to come."
Odin paused. The lines around his mouth were tight. "Some things on the boughs of the Mother are not for us to slay. Níðhöggr is made up of an old magic. An elemental magic. I do not have the power at my disposal to do away with him." The final words were clipped, unwillingly torn as Odin admitted to a weakness he'd rather not.
"Then let him have this moon," Anann returned. "Let him heal in peace. Let him atone for the destruction of the twelfth moon. Make an ally of the things older than us – don't bind them away and expect them not to bite back once that leash is set."
"Níðhöggr," Odin spoke very slowly, as if addressing a child, "is no innocent. No ally I would have by my side. What we do today, we do for all of the realms. And you will remember your vow, and my promise in return for it, if you mean to ever collect on that once the war is done."
Finally, Anann inclined her head. She wore her acceptance in her eyes, her promise in the spin of her words. "And for that, I will follow you – down whatever path your battles take us."
Odin nodded, accepting the renewal of her vow even as her fists clenched tight around the staff of her hook.
"Know that we can rewrite prophesy," Odin said once silence had stretched for a moment, his voice gentle in comparison to the blows he had been leveling. "We have seen the ends that benefit us all, as well as those which would do us harm. There is much to look to the future for, especially at this war's end."
Laufey with his angry eyes and empty armies. Jötunnheimr left eternally to the cold winter night. Nál dead, slain in the temple she presided over in the heart of her realm. The Casket of Ancient Winters far from its own soil, and entombed deep beneath Asgard's heart.
And to the Allfather and his wife . . .
Anann's eyes turned sly then, sparking like metal against a whet stone. "And, on that note," she said carefully, looking first to Odin and then to Týr, "I must congratulate you on your upcoming fatherhood. We are all happy for you and your bride."
Odin's eyes slanted over, angered – for Frigg's condition from where she was hidden on Vanaheimr were known only to a select few. To utter the words so openly on a moon which they did not have secured as their own . . .
And yet, to her side, Týr puffed up with pride in response to her words. "I thank-you for your kind words, milady," he took her congratulations as her own. "Gná shall bring my daughter into the world before the War's end, you will see. I can't even describe it – already the child kicks strong enough to bruise my hand. My wife is carrying a Valkyrie so it would seem!"
"And to better parents, the child could not go," Odin praised his second, his voice warm even as his gaze remained warning upon Anann. She held the look, and returned it.
Týr bowed his head, but he could not fully fight his smile from his face. He had no reason to keep it at bay as he swung his axe over to rest on his shoulders. In his shadow, Thor felt his own smile ache upon seeing the other man so, and not for the first did he wish that Sif shared his vision.
Silence fell between them, broken only by the steady footfalls of the guards behind them. Týr whistled onto the ash strewn air, no doubt thinking of the wife and daughter he would have to return to at the war's end. And, finally, Odin turned to the last one in their group. "And you are ready to do your part?"
Thor turned, and from Odin's shadow, a tall and willowy woman formed. Where none had stood before, the shadows parted to reveal the Mistress of Niflheimr. Lady Hel stood, wearing golden battle armor along with that of bone. She seemed pale and washed away without the lights of Helheimr to grant her the glow of life, but her eyes were bright and verdant. Smoke pooled around her, violet and blue and billowing as she flowed into being.
At the show of seiðr, Odin's brow rose, but he did not say a word against a being even more ancient and elemental than he and his line.
Hel turned, and the decaying half of her face caught the light. The molted flesh and dead skin was not as extreme as Thor remembered, the veins not nearly as pronounced, the eye not nearly as sunken this far back in the stream of time. For a moment, he wondered how Hel had looked at the beginning of her reign, before death and loss had put their mark on her skin – before Niflheimr had consumed her as one of its own.
"I am prepared to do as you summoned me to," Hel said, her voice low and soft, holding the same warmth that all of Yggdrasil's elemental things did.
"Do not forget your vows when the time comes," Odin still saw fit to remind, for Anann was not the only one in the group who had spoken against his treatment of prophesy. The whole cloth of the Nornir had only been shown to Odin and his queen - not even Anann knew the entirety of the prophesies to come. And it was that reason, and that reason alone, that support was still granted where many questioned. The realms prospered under the hand of the Allfather, and for that, he would have many at his back and by his side.
"I shall not," Hel said simply in reply, her eyes narrowed in a look of distaste that Thor found to be familiar to his eyes. But he could not place it. He could not deign the memory of it in his mind. He found himself frowning, his face furrowing downwards as it always did when grappling with a thought that remained elusive to him.
And then Hel's cold look turned. Her mouth hooked, the shape of it turning slyly. When she spoke, her words winded, like a serpent in the sand. "And congratulations to the father to be amongst us," Hel inclined her head, her infinite eyes swimming. "The fates have truly smiled upon you."
Týr inclined his head to the half-alive woman, his smile kind. "And let us pray that they continue to do so."
"For us all," Anann whispered. Before her, Odin's gaze pierced at her words, but he too nodded. He too agreed.
And, beyond them, the dragon continued to roar.
.
.
Thor awakened to the feeling of strong fingers pressing against his shoulder. When his eyes fluttered, half aware, he could not tell day from night in his chamber. The shadows still pervaded the whole of the space around him, and the fire in the hearth was nothing more than ash, only faintly warm.
He turned to the touch that had drawn him from his dreams, and he saw Sif standing over him. In the darkness, her smile was very white. Her armor already gleamed from where it covered her body. The only shadow that clung to the glare was where her inky hair fell around her one shoulder, already tied away for the battle to come.
"Come now, the dawn is here," said Sif, and already Thor could hear the hunt in her veins. The battle in her voice.
He blinked, and felt the same stain bite away at his own heart in reply. He inhaled tired, and exhaled refreshed, already itching for armor and movement. He rose, and shooed her away in order to ready himself, and within the next quarter mark, they were standing at the borders of Éljúðnir, ready to depart.
Where behind them, Hel's city was celestial and gleaming, through the gate in her walls, the realm of Náströnd beyond was cold and black. A thick smog clung to the ground, and to the air. It smelled of decay, of death and despair, and both Thor and Sif stood with their bodies inclined to the city they were to leave, not yet stepping towards the shadows beyond.
Showing them to the gates were Garmr and Hel herself. Unlike the day before, Hel wore simple garb while traveling with them to the edge of her realm's heart. Her leggings and tunic were made up of shimmering black leathers, and armor clung to her long limbs like glass, reflecting the brilliance of the souls and cosmos around her. Her boots were sturdy, and her hair was drawn back and braided into a long plait that hung down the center of her back. The only decoration on her was the diadem she wore about her brow, a simple band of gold with a single emerald at its pinnacle.
And in her hands she carried a weapon. A long scabbard, with a hilt of a sword peaking from its mouth.
Under Thor's intent gaze, she unsheathed the sword from its resting place. The metal sang as it was drawn away, humming as it tasted the air. The edges of the blade were sharp, catching the light as it was tilted by Hel's hand. The angles of the metal reflected all around it, shinning as a mirror until the dark steel was black from where it returned the image of the land about it. The blade was long and thin, bearing the marks of dwarfish craft with its elegant hold and the deep runes etched into the base of the metal. Hel passed the sword to Thor, not a word on her tongue when actions better would do.
Thor took the sword, and all at once there was a change in the steel. The dark grey metal now sparked. Blue flames licked about the blade. They sang, they caressed, and their fires caught in Thor's gaze, the color a direct replica of his own. They matched, he and they, and Sif watched with curiosity as the sword greeted Thor as if it had always been his own.
"What sort of trickery is this?" Thor asked, his question lost to the tremble in his voice. Sif felt herself tense at the sound of his voice, the tone calling her to arms, even though she could see no battle to fight.
The living side of Hel's mouth quirked, amused in the face of Thor's amazement. "This blade was crafted by Ivaldi himself," she started to answer his questions.
But Thor shook his head. "Impossible. These are new marks, and Ivaldi has long since been -"
" - dead?" Hel finished his sentence wryly.
The tips of Thor's ears flushed pink, and he shook his head.
She continued, bemused. "Ivaldi watched from my abode when Brokkr and Sindri created their goods for the Allfather's challenge, and his pride was unmatched when Brokkr produced Mjölnir from his forge. But always will Brokkr and Sindri pale in the face of the smith their father once was. Although, I do admit that it was . . . interesting coercing the dwarf into granting his aid. For Asgard he bears love enough, but for the second son little to none."
Thor snorted ruefully. "Loki has much come to quarrel with their kind," he admitted.
Sif, remembering golden twine and a bloody mouth did not smile so much as nod. Her hand on the hilt of her glaive was tight.
"Indeed," Hel said, her eyes green fire. "But Ivaldi owes me a kindness, and so, this blade was made for your hunt today."
Thor shook his head. "You do not understand, milady. With this blade I can . . . I can feel . . ."
"The storms?" Hel finished his sentence, yet again. "As you should. For the material that this blade was crafted from was Mjölnir herself in another time."
"Another time," Thor echoed hollowly, his brow creasing with confusion.
"A darker time," Hel's voice was solemn. "A time when the Twilight came and shattered all. All, including the unbreakable." She gestured to Thor's hammer, hanging safe and silent at his hip. "She was a valiant weapon, held by the hand of a valiant warrior, but all fall when confronted with the right blow. Even so, fragments of her remained through the final day, even after the fires faded and cooled. The blade you hold in your hand holds Mjölnir's essence, made molten through the inferno of the Twilight."
Thor's grasp tightened around the hilt of the sword. In his hand the blade hummed, seemingly feral as above them the skies rumbled in response to the thunderer so close to Mjölnir's soul. Sif could feel rain drops, small and few, strike against her armor when Thor lifted the sword before him, testing the weapon's weight and feel. The taste of the rain was cleansing.
"My only caution is this, the blade cannot leave my realm," Hel warned. "It was forged by a dead soul's hand, and from material originating from a time that is yet to be. It was forged for the here and now, in my realm only, which exists out of time. This blade is for Níðhöggr's heart, and then it shall be no more."
"I understand," Thor said solemnly in reply, his voice a weight and a vow. "And it will take this blade to slay Níðhöggr?" he asked.
Hel tilted her head. "Níðhöggr is made of the flame's might, but the magic in the core of him is Niflheimr's own. Remember, when you strike against him, that Mother Yggdrasil drew from both extremes of creation in order to give birth to us all. Fire and ice, between these two there always is a balance - and too long has this balance been forgotten by those who reside on her boughs. It is that balance, that accord, that will grant you a victory both today and in the time to come. Do you understand?"
And Thor inclined his head. "I understand," again he said. Again he swore.
And Sif felt her heart tighten at the look that Hel gave her friend. There was such a pride in her gaze. Pride, and hope, and such a crushing sadness that Sif could not name. It was a sorrow that hung in her gaze, in the twist of her mouth – it was the sort of sorrow that only memory could inflict. Sif felt her own shoulders turn heavy at the thought, though she could not deign why.
"We believe that you can do this," was the last thing Hel said. "All of us who have seen the Nornir's web so grant to you our hopes for the future." Do not abuse that power, her words hung in the air. Not spoken, but still heard.
"And I will not fail that hope," Thor swore.
Sif felt her smile turn at the sincerity in his eyes. It turned up even further when she again saw her hopes for the future gather upon her friend's shoulders. Someday, his reign would be such a light to the realm's after Odin entered into his final sleep. Of that, she held no doubt in her heart.
This time, it was Hel who bowed to Thor. The bow was deep, not the respect of the dead towards those not, but that of a monarch to another monarch. Ruler to ruler.
Hel straightened, and took a moment to gather herself. The bone plates on her chest lifted when she breathed. "Now," she said, collected once more, "have you found your path?" She gestured to the oilskin in Sif's hand.
Sif nodded. "Aye, that we have."
"Then, I bid that you follow it well, and strike true," Hel gave them her parting blessing.
And with the words, Thor turned to Náströnd beyond them, ready to set out on their hunt. Sif, though, lingered. She was slow to turn. Instead, she tilted her head and tried to call her words to her tongue. Thor, once realizing that she did not follow, stopped and turned back. His gaze questioned.
Hel gave a soft smile at her hesitation. "Go," she beckoned, her voice soothing as if she understood. The dip to Thor's gaze deepened. When Sif did not move, Hel's smile turned wane. It weighed."We will meet again." There was a promise to her words. An assurance she did not realize she had sought until it was given. Oddly comforted, Sif took the words and tucked them close.
She bowed, low and from her waist. as was fitting from a warrior to a sovereign. And Hel inclined her head in answer.
"Níðhöggr awaits," the dread queen said, and her voice quickened like a ghost in the mist as Thor and Sif crossed through the gate, and into Náströnd beyond. For a moment, their forms flickered, stronger than the fog. And then, the darkness swallowed them.
Arm in arm, Hel and Garmr watched until they could watch no more. And then Hel sighed. "Someday," she said, her voice small in the great expanse of her realm. "Prophesy will have to answer for the path it has put them upon. For the path it has put all of us upon."
The sigh Garmr gave was full, drawn from the deep parts of him. But still, he wove his living hand through her deadening one, offering her his support. As always, the touch anchored her.
And then, together, they made their way back to the heart of her realm.
.
.
Where Éljúðnir had been the mystical and dazzling brilliance of the cosmos, Náströnd was a dark and unnatural place. The landscape was defined by barren rocks, ruddy and black by turn. The stone ways were porous and rough, covered by hundreds of tiny white vines that criss crossed over every possible surface. Besides the vines, the land was absent of foliage, yet thick plumes of smoke rose from fissures in the rock mass until the black clouds created a sick pantomime of a forest and its might. Cutting through the land, crystal clear water boiled and bubbled with a cold blue flame, for this was still the land of Niflheimr, and the might of fire and its heat would not be found here.
On the horizon, the sky was a cold shade of grey, shaded by the fog around them. The smoke stung at Sif's eyes, making them water. The smell of the land settled in the back of her nose, in her throat, and she fought the urge to gag at the taste – brimstone and ash and decay so fragrant and bold that she could not discern anything else beside it. She inhaled deeply, hoping to be numb to the scent by the time they faced the dragon.
While the landscape was hard and harsh, continually dipping and rising, the hardest part of their trek was navigating the countless waterways. The rivers of Náströnd rushed through the stone earth like veins through a clawed hand, and the currents were as violent as the realm in which they traveled through. The water here was fresh and pure, flowing as it did from the heart of creation. These waters were tributaries, running from Hvergelmir to feed the waterways in all nine of the realms. Sif felt the cold water bite at her waist as they waded through yet another broad river, keeping to their path, and her shiver was kept at bay only at the knowledge that the icy water around her came from the spring that would so save Loki's soul.
Their journey, at least, was met without the horrors which normally accompanied Náströnd's name. They saw naught of one black soul, or the even darker creatures who kept watch over them, thanks to Hel's hold over the realm. For that small favor, Sif was glad, for there were tracks in the tar like substance they trudged through on the banks of the rivers. The uneven tracks told tales of unnatural things, accompanied by lines of those who had been dragged through the realm. There were marks on the rock face, white and deep, where claws had scoured the stone. Beyond them, screams filled the air. Náströnd was not a place of peace, but of a final death for those who had caused darkness and pain to be so in their lives. The horizon was alive with moans and cries of despair, and more than the scent of smoke and the bite of ice did the sound beat behind Sif's heart.
No wonder the dragon was mad, after being so long bound in such a place . . .
Ahead of her by a stride, Thor looked to the map which she had annotated, and then up again to the bleak land around him. He, with his golden hair and white grin, was amiss in the dark mire of his surroundings, even more so than he had been in Hel's hall. "Last night when I dreamed, I saw glimpses of this trail," Thor said, breaking the silence between them.
"You did?" Sif asked, curious as to what memories Éljúðnir had thought to give to him.
"Aye," Thor confirmed. "I dreamed of the time when Níðhöggr was banished, back in the early days of the Great War. I saw my lord father with both of his eyes, accompanied by your own father."
Sif thought of Týr, and knew a tightening in her heart. It was hard to mourn what one had never known, but still an instinctive ache lingered with her throughout the years.
"He looked much like you," Thor continued on, a kindness in his voice. "And I recognized at least three of your defensive forms when he fought."
Sif let her grin strike. "A fearsome warrior he must have been."
Thor snorted. "And he bore your faulty footwork every time he came away from a feint -"
She turned to him, indignant. "So says Thor Tanglefoot himself," she let the appellation go slyly – Loki's name for his brother when the second son prevailed over the first with grace and speed rather than brute strength.
Thor rolled his eyes, but still he continued, "I saw with them the Lady Hel, and the Mórrigan as well."
Sif blinked. "So many were needed to slay one wyrm?"
"To slay Níðhöggr," Thor corrected, as if the name was explanation enough. "And even then the battle was long."
Sif was silent for a moment, letting his words weigh upon her. To know that such warriors had taken up arms against the dragon, and had struggled so . . . That, along with prophesy's unfavorable words . . . but no. Hel would not have sent them on such a hopeless quest. The power to render the wyrm no more laid within them. It had to. For the sake of all of their souls.
And then another thought pushed against her. "Hel said that such dreams in her land were memories, memories of things passed, or things to come. Things which never have been, even. I wonder whose memories you were granted to see."
Thor tilted his head curiously at her. "It is a question for thought," he replied. "When did you have the occasion to speak to the dread queen alone?"
"I dreamed," Sif answered simply. "And I did not dream well. She awakened me."
Thor's face was a look of distaste. "There have been far too many of such dreams on this journey," he said, his hand tightening over the hilt of Ivaldi's sword. "Do you remember what you saw?"
Sif's brow furrowed. She tried to call the dream to mind, but like any other dream, the remembrance of it was like mist to her. "I remember little of it," she admitted. "I remember only that I felt such a fear, a crushing weight greater than any I have ever felt in battle. It was a fear I did not even feel when I dreamed of the Twilight to come." Still, there had been such a love next to that fear – greater too than anything she had ever felt, or could imagine feeling. For without the one, the other never could be. That she did not say to Thor, unsure as she was of how to shape the words. She paused, but she did add, "I think that in the dream, I was a mother."
At that, Thor laughed. From beside him on the path, Sif took a moment to elbow him. "Silence your tongue," she warned, unable to do more when the path before them was narrow, with an unkind fall left to a misstep. Below them, white waters raged. In their depths, black souls moaned.
"Forgive me, milady," Thor still grinned with his bemusement. "I meant only to imply that the man strong enough to win your hand – to turn your eye from the battlefield and to cradle and hearth - must be a particularly brave man indeed. Stupidly so."
His words drew her smile in return, acknowledging the teasing. But still she said, "Eventually, all yearn for family." For she could not explain how right she had felt in the dream. how at ease she had felt with the child in her arms. It was a rightness she had only known the first time she had held a sword and acknowledged its place in her hand. A rightness she had known the first time her hand had slipped through Loki's own, and she acknowledged her wanting. "Don't you want children someday?" she asked her friend then, curious.
Thor rubbed at the back of his head. "Someday, I will need a son to carry on the line of Bor. But a child comes after a bride, and that part of the equation is something I do not feel missing from my life at the time being."
When she thought of the daughters of Asgard who so vied for Thor's hand, Sif snorted. "It is a choice I do not envy you," she snickered. Odin Allfather was even more of a matchmaker than his wife, and Thor could scarce attend a feast without a daughter of an 'old battle companion' being pushed upon him to dance. Half of them Thor was able to scare away with his thick feet on the dance floor, the other half were more tenacious.
"Some are more horrendous than others," Thor made a face, his thoughts traveling down the same path as her own.
Sif looked thoughtful for a moment. "Lofn?" she asked to the first lady who came to mind. "She is a very kind and loving maiden."
Thor made a face. "And too easily does she give way to tears. There is too little of war in her nature."
Lofn would mourn a flower's death, it was true. Sif continued to think. "Idunn?" she asked then, thinking of the golden woman who kept to Asgard its youth. Idunn's sister, Ilna, presided over the feasts, and was wedded to Volstagg. Already to that couple belonged six children, if Sif counted correctly.
At that, Thor laughed. "Hogun would never forgive me, I fear, if I sought out Idunn's hand."
Sif processed that. "Hogun?" she repeated, joy spiking in her chest for her friend. "How did I not know?"
"Your eyes are kept too long by your shield," Thor teased. "And Hogun is not one to speak of many things to many ears."
"Indeed, but as a lady, I should have known before you."
"Perhaps," Thor gave with a smile. His gaze settled for a moment upon her face, as if considering something.
A moment passed. And still his eyes lingered. "What has caught your attention so?" Sif asked frankly to his appraisal.
"Perhaps," Thor said slyly, "I can set all of the rumors to rest, and just marry you."
Sif snorted. "Your father would be pleased," she said to that. For long had that been the unspoken will of Odin. "But unfair to you, for I fear I would make a terrible bride – bringing you bloody heads rather than a son and heir. And to be the Allmother someday? No, I would not wish upon Asgard that fate." The court was a beast that Sif had never had the urge to slay. The pandering and playing of the nobility was a battle not meant for her; her with her blunt blows and her warring ways. She had spent too long fighting against the better half of the upper caste – all who had turned their noses to the idea of a warrior maid. To be their queen, and have their fake adoration where she had known their spite and their cruel words before . . . No. It was not to be.
Thor laughed, but he did not disagree with her. His gaze was fond upon her, but that was all it would ever be. And, as always, it was a look she warmed under, but she did not soar.
And then, Sif's eyes narrowed before she delivered her final blow. "Perhaps," she said as casually as she could, "you could just wed Amora and be done with it."
Thor pressed his hand over his heart, feigning a great and terrible wound. "How your words do me harm!" he exclaimed. "Me and the witch, now that is a thought for Asgard's future."
Sif shook her head when she thought of the poor enchantress and her hopeless love. "Skurge will be grateful to hear that." Equally hopeless with his affections, the strongman adored the very ground that the half Álfar maid walked upon. Someday, there would be a tragedy to tell there, Sif was sure.
And again, Thor shook his head, as if trying to understand something past his ability to comprehend. "And yet, we speak of the future before we have lived through our hunt," his brow furrowed seriously when he saw that they had come to a gap in the paths. The water swam even more quickly here than it did before. It hissed and bubbled, breaking the ice that would have settled upon it otherwise.
Sif looked up, and realized that the sound of the souls beyond had faded. The path before them had lost its tracks. There was no sign of Náströnd's black souls and dark creatures.
The path turned, it dipped. Before them, the rock mass crested. It rose from the ground like teeth behind a lip. And as they climbed the steep expanse, they finally saw the roots that formed Níðhöggr's prison. The massive wooden structures pulsed with a cold magic – for they were enchanted to show as physical embodiments of Yggdrasil's might, bound by Niflheimr's magic. They twisted and gnarled together, and their barrier formed the nest of the dragon they sought to face. There was a wall of jewel toned rock, and from beyond Nidhoggr's massive prison, there was the sound of water – a gushing and bubbling spring that fed a massive river that started fierce and cold before falling over the cliff's edge that the dragon's den opened to. The waterfall that the spring created was massive and majestic, an unparalleled sight to her travels so far. This was Hvergelmir and its might. Finally, they stood before their goal.
Her eyes narrowed hungrily on the water. Her fingers itched. She remembered Loki's soul in her hand and thought almost. But not quite.
Thor was eying the den as a soldier would spy a front line. They kept to the smaller water ways, approaching from down wind. Their footsteps were wet. Black slime stuck to the rock on the shore beneath their boots. The tiny white vines that clung to the rock gave them a strong purchase for their hands, slick though they were from the tar that coated all around them. In the dragon's den, bones littered the ground as leaves may have lined the forest floors. They gathered in piles, they floated on the edges of the water where the currents had pushed them aside. There was a reason for the silence around them, Sif thought as her gaze turned to an empty skull at her feet. In contrast to the sea of soul's in Hel's hall, this was death and a final end, pure and simple.
"Remember the dragon Skaldi we faced?" Thor questioned, soft from next to her. He broke her from her thoughts.
Her eyes spied up, looking for the dragon amongst his den. She saw nothing but the colored stone. "The one who thought himself to be a poet?" she remembered, her voice holding the black humor that accompanied any battle.
"Who agreed to let Fandral and Hogun escape his meal by demonstrating their talent composing using iambic pentameter," Thor agreed.
Sif snorted. "Odin's Mighty Spear is now a popular drinking song in the mead halls. Who would have thought that Fandral had the soul of a bard all along?"
Thor's look was wry. "What are the odds that Níðhöggr will accept such a battle here?"
"Hopefully few," Sif muttered, still searching. "Your talents with words are as few as your talents with steel are great. I would not trust Loki's soul to such a bet." For while not every wyrm intended them harm, there were too many who needed violence to part ways from. Such, Sif reflected, was the nature of many things.
"Or the time when we stood against Fáfnir? Remember the trenches in which we waited for the whole pass of a day?" Thor made a face at the memory of that particular escapade.
Sif shook her head. "I remember that Fandral lamented the state of his hair and dress the whole day through until I was ready to strike him rather than the dragon."
They came to the final bend in the stream they followed. The rock parted, and both of them squeezed in through the massive roots that formed Níðhöggr's boundary.
Still, she could not spy the dragon. There was just the massive stones, and the cliff beyond them. The water of Hvergelmir which rushing down to the southern part of Náströnd below . . .
"Thor, something is wrong," she finally said. "I see no wyrm, and Níðhöggr has not left this place in near eight hundred years."
Thor spied up as well, his eyes everywhere at once.
Before them, a brush of wind passed. It stank of rotting bones and old flesh, death and decay and foul corpses. It was a dragon's breath, breathing down upon them.
The rock mass shifted.
And Sif started as realization struck her. "Thor," she hissed, but she had not needed to sound her words. Thor saw the same moment she did, and together the both of them backed to the roots that formed Níðhöggr's prison.
And Níðhöggr moved.
What once Sif thought to be merely stone and rock was actually the dragon himself. Níðhöggr shifted, moving his massive forelegs out from under him in order to stand, letting the mire that had settled upon him fall away. The dull colors of the stone turned bright, shimmering and majestic, until it was obvious that they were not stone at all, but rather jewel toned scales. The wyrm was massive, seemingly everywhere their eyes could take in until he filled the whole of his prison. His head was staggering, nearly five times as tall as Thor, with straight and sharp horns that swept back from his brow. Smaller such horns continued all the way down his spine. They rose as warnings. In the relatively small space of his nest, his wings were kept bound to his back. She wondered for a moment how he would look against the sun, with his bright colors and massive wings, before hiding the thought away.
When Níðhöggr opened his eyes, his stare was molten. Crimson and mad. And . . .
Blind.
The dragon could not see. He bore scars about his eyes, telling of where his sight had been taken from him in the time before. He could no longer make sight of the world around him, and in place his massive nostrils flared as he took in their scent. His forked tongue tasted the air, searching.
And in the depths of his dead gaze, madness dwelt. Sores decorated his skin, telling where his own claws had scratched, trying to gouge away the enchantments that held him captive. There were burn marks on his scales, telling where his breath had burned hot against his prison. On the roots around him, there were lines of black soot where his bars had been scorched. But he had not been able to burn his breath hot enough. He did not have the heat within him.
In her hand, the hilt of her glaive was well worn and ready. Her shield hummed at her back.
And Thor stepped forward, ready.
The dragon stirred, his massive claws clicking against the ground. "Who art thou to move amongst Níðhöggr's nest?" called the dragon, the sound of him ancient and elemental. His voice did not float upon the air. Instead, Sif heard it in her mind; heard it thrum from her bones, and pound from her heart. His voice was deep, yet musical – like thunder in the clouds, or water as if fell over a cliff. It was harsh and it was bold, and still it sang.
The both of them were silent. They slipped through the dragon's nest like the fog that blanketed the land.
Níðhöggr's nostrils flared. "Níðhöggr can see thee not, but Níðhöggr can smell thy blood on the air. Flame-born, are thee? Of Asgard's berth . . . and Odin's blood, at that. Thunderer," Níðhöggr hissed the title, tasting the air with his tongue. "Long has thy blood been a taste most longed for upon Níðhöggr's palette. Come hither, and let Níðhöggr take his feast. Thou as well, shield-maiden, daughter of Týr. Champions, Níðhöggr knew Frigg-Queen would send. Murderers, Odin would bid close to Níðhöggr. A mercy, Hel-Queen will think thy quest to be. Mercy for Níðhöggr's soul, and Yggdrasil's future."
"We come, for the water of Hvergelmir which the dread lady Hel will not give without your heart," Thor declared, drawing Ivaldi's before him, ready to strike.
Níðhöggr's head swiveled. He peered, though he had no sight to see. "Long have those born of Bor Firstfather tried to strike against Níðhöggr's and his own. The spring called Hvergelmir is within Níðhöggr's abode, and drawing from it shall come at price of blood."
"Indeed it shall," Thor's voice promised. It thundered.
And Níðhöggr laughed, the sound tapping like tiny claws over her bones, far beneath muscle and skin. "Come then, flame-born. Wave thy sticks and stones, and try to take from Níðhöggr what is his own."
Though tiny in comparison to the dragon, Thor paced before him. Though Níðhöggr's shadow swam over him like the tide through a shell, still the first son tilted his head up proudly. In his hands, the sword formed from Mjölnir's heart flashed. It sang its promise to her wielder.
Níðhöggr again tasted the air with his tongue. His rumbling growl shook the ground, making the bones at their feet shudder. The uneven earth gave to the force of the dragon upon it, and still Thor stood tall. Sif watched, her hands tight on the hilt of her glaive.
Thor wasted little more with words. Long had the shapes of syllables and their might been second to him, and now he needed them not as he lifted the sword high above his head. As she had seen him do a hundred times before, he swirled the blade. The air in the nest crackled. Static clung to her skin. It spun through her hair. Above him, the sky turned dark. Electric blue light flashed off of the prison of roots around them.
And the storms answered his call. Thunder built and built and built until when Thor gave his charge, lightning preceded him, striking Níðhöggr full on the heart. The dragon screamed at the force of the bolt, but he did not fall. Instead, he bowed his head, and clasped a claw to his chest. He closed his eyes, and breathed in . . . he breathed in the lightning. It did not burn him. It merely charged his scales. It made his eyes burn all too bright.
"Foolish flame-born," Níðhöggr rumbled. "Form'est was Níðhöggr from fire and her might. Thy storms may touch Níðhöggr not."
Sif saw the first threads of worry wind their way into Thor's gaze. To have his storms so useless . . .
Níðhöggr breathed, showing where he still held the lightning in his mouth. It sparked and spluttered between his fangs. It crackled. The scent of sulfur increased. He was going to -
"Thor!" Sif shouted her warning, but she needed not to.
Níðhöggr exhaled, and he exhaled fire. A heat unlike anything Sif had ever known before filled the cavern. It licked at the tar on the rock, it ate the remnants of bones around them. It sang upon the spring of Hvergelmir, making the icy water bubble and boil. It popped at Sif's boots as she held her shield before her and ducked down as low as she could. Over the rock, the thick roots created trenches and gorges, and she crouched down in order to wade out the dragon's breath.
If Thor's storms could not slay the wyrm, then they would have to do this the old fashioned way.
The flames faded as Níðhöggr inhaled. He roared, and Sif lengthened the reach of her blades. She felt the war sing in her veins. It hollered. Her boots were wet with the water that would so deliver Loki, and with the thought she moved her toes against the worn leather encasing her. She found her center.
She sprang forward then, springing up at the same time Thor did. He struck against the scales with both his sword and Mjölnir, using the winds to propel him up high on the dragon's body. Sif, without the power of flight, struck low, trying to find a hook in the dragon's tender belly.
"Thou dost think that such trifle weapons can strike against Níðhöggr?" the dragon laughed. The sound rumbled through their veins. "Thy father brought with him an army to imprison Níðhöggr, an army with shield spells and mage chants aplenty. Thee with thy tiny blows and hearts empty of seiðr can do naught to touch Níðhöggr."
The dragon swatted at Thor, and it was clear that he was playing with him – flicking the Thunderer away as a hand may swat at a fly. He moved his massive tail, and struck against her at the same time. "Níðhöggr can smell thee as well, shield-maiden. The blood of Tyr's daughter shall be hot and sweet, as was that which I took from thy lord father, this Níðhöggr knows to be true."
Sif's hands curved over the hilt of her blade. She felt her muscles burn, her limbs stretched as she danced around the dragon's massive limbs. Her teeth bared to the insult. "You took from my father a token, he took from you all," she returned, speaking her words up into the wind so that they carried. They lifted.
The dragon thrashed his tale at her, catching her about the stomach and sending her flying. He still had not looked away from Thor. The blow was as a parent scolding a child, and Sif set her teeth at it. "And Týr's strengths are unparalleled by thy own, little one," the dragon mocked.
Sif skidded across the bone strewn ground. She felt her armor scrape, her skin catch on the sharp points around her. She bit her lip, bore the discomfort, and let the force of the blow put her back on her feet again. She sprang up, and this time ducked low and twisted under his tail. She danced between his great legs, striking her glaive against his massive sides.
Her glaive skidded across the mighty scales. It did not even leave a line, a mark speaking of where her blow should have been taken.
The scales were impervious to their weapons, Sif realized with a sick feeling in her stomach. Even Mjölnir above her could do nothing to put a dent in the strong scales. While Ivaldi's sword fared little better than Sif's glaive, it still could not dig beneath the dragon's scales. Fire and ice, Hel had said was needed to unlock the blade's might, but how . . .
Her thoughts spun, tactics and strategies coming and leaving in the time it took her to dodge just one of the dragon's blows. Again, she glanced up to where Thor was flying around the dragon's eyes – taunting Níðhöggr with his blindness. Such taunts would buy them time, but only time. It would not earn them a victory. Sif felt her stomach turn. Her heart seized.
It would not end in their favor this way.
This time when Níðhöggr forced her back, she let him. Again she looked at the dragon's tender belly, protected by his strong claws and his lashing tale. She ducked down in the deep trenches created by the roots around them, and finally, she had an idea strike.
"Thor!" she shouted up at her companion. "Remember Fáfnir?"
"That I do, milady," he shouted down to her, and she watched as his sharp eyes shifted to take her in. Her with her ready glaive, and the empty hollows between the roots. How his eyes flashed then to Níðhöggr's lumbering stride, and the quick current of Hvergelmir right beyond them.
His grin hooked as he followed her thoughts with his own. "Normally, this sort of task belongs to the Three," he protested good-naturedly. At the humor in his voice, Níðhöggr swatted more fiercely at him, turning his attention back to the battle at hand.
Sif snorted. Distractions were the Three's forte, it was true.
But this time . . .
They were running out of options, and Níðhöggr's patience would not last for long. He could burn them to a cinder if he truly set his mind to it. And once he tired of humoring them . . .
It was not a thought that stood to linger upon, Sif decided. She set her jaw in determination. And with an exhale, she leapt down into the deep trenches. The paths between the roots were thin, and it was hard for her to find her step. Her boots twisted upon the floor covering of bones. The round edges broke under her feat, made slick by the same thick tar that coated the rest of the land. Sif stepped too hard against a skull, and felt it chip underfoot. Her other foot stuck between the rib cage of some poor unfortunate. She steadied herself against the spine, ignoring the sensation of the curving bones poking against the leather of her boots.
From beyond her, Thor continued to dance with the dragon. He darted left and right in the air, and the dragon matched him. He followed.
And slowly, Níðhöggr moved forward.
She would have to be quicker, Sif judged her time as she slipped from one trench into the next until she was near the edge of Níðhöggr's next. Before her was the spring of Hvergelmir, its strong current racing to reach the massive waterfall that dipped before them. The waterfall was a sheer drop, dipping hundreds and hundreds of feet down below, where it would pour into the first river of the realms - the river Gjöll, Niflheimr's own soul stream. The water roared in her ears. It pulsed in time with her thundering heart.
And still Níðhöggr moved towards the edge.
Steel clashed against scales. From Thor's mouth, thunder rumbled. The dragon exhaled, and Sif could smell fire and brimstone and soot.
Finally, she found her spot. She ducked down low, moving so that her dark hair spilled over her shoulders. Here, she knew the deep shadows would cover the glint of her armor. She was indecipherable from the bones and roots around her. And the rushing water and the down draft of the wind, would hide her scent from the blind dragon. At least, so she hoped.
She held her glaive in readiness. Deeply, she inhaled.
When Níðhöggr moved over the trench she had settled in, it was as if a cloud has passed before the sun. The dim light she had in the trench was choked. The shadows won as around her the light died. Above her, the dragon's belly loomed. There were no scales to cover the soft hide there. Only his massive claws, and his spiked tail. Normally, both of which should have been more than ample to defend himself with.
This chance would not come again to them.
And so, with everything in her, Sif struck up. Her blade struggled to pierce the dragon's flesh, and even when it did, it took her all to move the steel in a slash. She cut, and above her the dragon did not make a sound. She wondered, even, if he blinked.
It wasn't enough, she thought furiously as she twisted the blade. Finally, her movements then brought a reaction. Níðhöggr turned, bringing even more of his mass to cover her place within the trench. But he did not move enough to free her. Instead, more of her trench was covered.
And then he pressed his weight down.
She heard the dragon roar as he threw his weight against the uneven ground beneath him. The walls of the roots groaned in protest. The wood started to splinter. The piled bones started to crack. Sif felt her boots sink deeper and deeper into the tar. Into the mud.
And then, there was nowhere for her to sink against.
From the shifting mass above her, she felt a drop strike her brow. Out of reflex, she reached up to brush it away out of reflex. It was blood, she realized when the droplet ate through the leather of her glove. The dragon's blood, acidic and rank and virile upon her. And burning. She felt her flesh sting, the wound smarted from only a drop, and when she withdrew her blade from the dragon's flesh, there would be even more. There would not be enough blood loss to do Níðhöggr harm, but there would be more than enough to be a very real danger to her in the confined space she was in - a space that was becoming smaller and smaller the more Níðhöggr bore his weight down.
He would crush her, she realized as she tried to keep her mind calm, her wits steel. He would crush her, or the trench she was in would soon fill with his burning blood. She moved her shield, which had flared into life at the spike of trepidation in her mind. Angling the golden light, she tried to see how far the tunneled space she was in would let her move. The warm light showed no way out to her – the trench had collapsed at its ends from the dragons weight. There would be no moving back the way she had come.
And no moving forward, she thought, seeing where the rock and the wood gave away to the rushing forces of Hvergelmir, and the great falls beyond.
Above her, Níðhöggr's great mass heaved as if in laughter. She imagined that she could hear Thor call for her, but it was not possible, not through the wall of flesh that now imprisoned her.
Beyond her, Hvergelmir roared.
And Sif steeled her resolve. The spring would bring life to not only one that day, she made up her mind.
She held her shield above her head in the same motion she unsheathed her glaive from Níðhöggr's belly. The blood dripped thickly down, and yet she kept the whole of its fall from striking her with her shield above her. Still the fumes filled the air. The gore gathered at her feet, eating through the bone strewn floor. And with the butt of her glaive, she struck backwards at the wall of bone and root. The rock beneath splintered. The bones gave.
And a new force bit against her, the current of the spring and its inevitable destination.
Sif struck again and again, until the water filled the trenches.
At the sting of the frigid water, Níðhöggr moved away from her trench. But it was too late for her to climb out, not with the water picking its icy fingers at her. It seized her, and its current was one that she could not fight.
Water filled her mouth, her nose and her lungs, and she gagged as she broke above the surface. Gulping in air, she tried to clear her lungs, even as she kicked mightily at the current. Her armor slowed her from swimming. The steel around her, normally her protection in battle, was made a blow with the water slamming into her on all sides. She could not find the bottom of the river with her boots, she could not grasp at the roots on the shore with her hands. Her fingers were cold and icy and they had no feeling. Just barely, she kept a hold onto her shield, a fierce instinct in her daring the water to take what she held dearest to her.
And this time, she did not imagine Thor's cries from above her. She could see him flying towards her – towards the end of Níðhöggr's prison, and the great fall that led to the river of Gjöll below . . . but it was not only Thor who reached for her, but Níðhöggr as well.
And the dragon's reach was far.
She could feel as Níðhöggr's great maw settled around her shield like a vice. He seized at the shield, and Sif's stubborn fingers made it so that she was lifted as well. One would not be without the other. She was freed from the water, and the cold wind of Náströnd bit at her, hitting her everywhere the icy water had previously touched her. She shivered, down to her very bones, and felt her heart leap when she could smell the dragon's fiery breath above her. His carrion eyes were narrowed on her as he tossed her too and fro, trying to break her hold on her shield. The steel had wedged itself between two of his great fangs, and it would not give.
And Sif's fingers held tight.
Furiously, she tried to reach for the glaive that she had been able to secure before the water had taken her. But what would she do with her tiny blade, and Níðhöggr so looming before her? "Absent are thee of thy bite without thy little blade?" Níðhöggr's voice was amused, black and silky, as a spider may have been to a prize in the center of its web. "What shall the shield-maiden do now?"
"I shall cut your tongue out," Sif swore, finding her words within herself. And the idea sounded better and better to her as she tried to swing herself closer to the dragon's maw – closer to anything that would give her a better perch than dangling in the air as she was.
Not too close, she had a moment to think when one of Níðhöggr's thrashings brought her all to near to a rather ignoble end. Her fingers ached as she swung her body in the opposite direction, but she willed the pain away.
She inhaled sharply, her eyes fierce. And then, right beyond her, she heard Thor thunder, "Sif, let yourself fall!"
Instinct gave way to years of training. She ignored the spike of fear she felt at such an idea, and instead listened to the voice she had been trained for centuries to trust implicitly in battle. Her fingers tightened, only once, before she let go completely.
She fell.
And above her, she saw Thor once again draw his storms. The surge of fire and thunder was unlike anything she had ever seen Thor draw before, and the lightning once again consumed Níðhöggr. The flames licked at his skin, at his scales, and this time the dragon threw his head back and roared his pain at the blow the Thunderer dealt him.
And still she fell.
Níðhöggr thrashed, but he did not burn. Ribbons of blue lightning raced up and down his scaled body, brighter than a star in the night sky as he slowly consumed the flames. He breathed smoke. Around them the air was electric and burnt. It sizzled.
He thrashed with his pain, and Sif had only a moment to know alarm before the side of her head was knocked into by his slashing tail.
Immediately, her vision bloomed with black spots. She blinked, but her sight was gone to her as she was thrown even further than she was before – batted away as a ship may have been tossed upon an angry sea. She clung to consciousness, even as her stomach reeled sickly from the blow to her head and her mad spin before the air. Her limbs windmilled wildly, but she had nothing to grasp at. Nothing to turn herself with.
"Sif!" she heard her name yelled as she was flung beyond the roots that formed Níðhöggr's cage. Past the roots and into the great drop of Hvergelmir's spring into the river Gjöll far below them.
"Sif!" Thor screamed, but he was too far to reach her before the water did. Too far, with Níðhöggr's murderous claws held between he and her.
Before her, the fall of Hvergelmir loomed.
And still, she fell.
Mira's Mythological Mauling Madness
Ivaldi: Father of the dwarfs Brokkr and Sindri, who forged Mjölnir and Gungnir and a dozen other things in the myths.
Náströnd: Comparable to the Greek Tartarus – the black part of Hel's realm where evil souls were cast to in the afterlife. Here they were devoured by the dragon, Níðhöggr.
Níðhöggr: The dragon imprisoned in Niflheimr, who gnaws at the roots of Yggdrasil and devours the evil dead. He, along with Surtr, will be the two to set fire to the Yggdrasil during Ragnarök.
Hvergelmir: The spring in Niflheimr where all cold rivers come from. This spring is located beneath the dragon's nest.
Idunn: The goddess of eternal youth, who keeps Asgard immortal through her famous golden apples.
Lofn: Whose name means 'loving', she is the goddess in charge of arranging marriages.
Fáfnir: Was a greedy dwarf prince who turned into a dragon in order to protect his horde of gold. The hero Sigurd, in the Völsunga Saga, slays Fáfnir in much the same way that Sif attempted to do away with Níðhöggr here. He waited in a trench, and destroyed Fáfnir from below, having already carved out multiple trenches to avoid the pesky 'being drowned by venom' thing that the myths were so very fond of. Odin was the one to appear and instruct Sigurd to do so. Sif wasn't so lucky here, and Níðhöggr is a more fearsome wyrm than Fáfnir by far, at that, so we can't fault her too much. ;)
Thor's Sword: Was inspired by the sword Gram, which was Sigurd's as well. The mighty sword belonged to Sigurd's father, Sigmund, and was the Excalibur equivalent in the Norse legends. Odin had struck Gram down into the Barnstokkr (a tree trunk), and only a worthy man could pull it free. At the death of Sigmund, the sword was shattered, but he ordered the pieces kept so that the sword could someday be reforged for his son. In Sigurd's hands, the sword was ten times stronger than it was before.